Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫


[1] The Foundations “Build Me Up Buttercup”
[2] Powerman 5000 “When Worlds Collide”
[3] Missy Elliott “Get Ur Freak On”
[4] Survivor “Burning Heart”
[5] Cypress Hill “Insane In The Brain”
[6] Beck “Devil’s Haircut”
[7] Roxette “(She’s Got) The Look”
[8] Lady Gaga “Poker Face”
[9] John Farnham “You’re The Voice”
[10] Peaches Fuck “The Pain Away”
[11] Katy Perry “Peacock”
[12] Ke$ha Gold “Trans Am”
[13] KC & The Sunshine Band “(Shake Shake Shake) Shake Your Booty”
[14] ZZ Top “Legs”
[15] Kenny Loggins “Footloose”
[16] Rick James “Super Freak”
[17] Aerosmith “Dude Looks Like A Lady”



What would you do if you were given the opportunity to build yourself again from the ground up? I mean, very few of us are actually satisfied with the hands we have been dealt and I don’t know many people who wouldn’t make at least one alteration if such a chance was begging. Well it just so happens that you’ve come to precisely the right place as, thanks to pioneering technology and a mad scientist who may or may not harbor sinister designs on global domination, we can do precisely that. You’ll have to wait in line as I have already paid my money and, right now, the seconds are ticking away before I go under the knife for a spot of reinvention. It won’t be the first time I’ve attempted such renovation although it is something of a first to be able to switch body parts at will. Naturally there are risks involved and I have to consider each component wisely as the consequence of opting for John Merrick’s head and Karen Carpenter’s legs could be way beyond grave. Also I must be aware that 50,000 watts of voltage will be passing through the old alimentary canal during the course of the procedure and that’s the equivalent of consuming a hundred copper Big Macs and a side hamper of pylon fries seasoned with popping candy, before washing it down with a nice glass of electrified bath water. Then there’s the danger of any stitching coming loose as mad scientists aren’t known for their ability to thread a needle.


This could prove cataclysmic and, if I ponder too long on the potential perils, then stupid old logic will likely muscle its way in and I’ll never get to test drive Usain Bolt’s calves or fondle my brand new set of Katy Perry fun bags. Look at me giving away my trade secrets before we’ve even got started; you’ll have to forgive me as my lips tend to flap like Rosie O’Donnell’s bingo wings on a big dipper when I’m nervous (which reminds me, the Meg Ryan 5000 I spotted in the catalogue would alleviate that problem). Aren’t I awful? Forgive me my flippant attitude but it’s all just a front really. Deep down I’m bricking it at the very real prospect of coming unstuck and I want you to know how serious I am about taking this bold step into the unknown. The moment I go under my anesthetic spell, I’m in the hands of both fate and someone who I’m reasonably assured is certifiable. This isn’t the kind of genius whose services are procured through Craigslist; I had to shell out on a round trip to Darmstadt, Deutschland just to make an appointment with his secretary Igor. To be fair, Igor is more personal assistant, and assists his master with everything from passing him the forceps to providing any necessary shoulder massages whilst right in the thick of it. And try not to stare at his hunchback for too long as he tends to be a little over-sensitive about that one. On his current wage, he should be able to afford a transplant himself by the time hell freezes over. How’s that for ambition?


Anyhoots, I’m currently #2 in the pecking order and, judging by the power cut that just struck down Düsseldorf, I’d say it’s high time I begin perusing my options. Being decisive here is critical as there is no turning back once the generator fires up and Victor will think nothing of making you foot his next quarterly electricity bill before sending you packing empty-handed should his valuable time be deemed fit to waste. I believe it would be wise to get those vital organs out-of-the-way first as I’ll be needing my fair share of horsepower to fire those pistons up to the canter. Minor detail such as skin pigmentation can wait its turn as it’s far better resembling spam than sharing its density. Feel free to chip in it appears that a component has slipped my mind as a sphincter tends to be compulsory if not suffering the same odious fate as the poor chick last in line on the Human Centipede. Let’s face it, the asshole would be rather effortless to overlook, especially given that I forgot to pack my hand mirror. With that in mind, there seems no more fundamental piece of kit than the old chest thumper right? Kind of ties the whole room together I hear. Donald Trump may have gotten far without one, but that’s only because his copper top mop is responsible for conducting the flow. It’s gotta be strong, it’s got to be sure, and it’s gotta be larger than life! Aha, I think I’ve sussed it y’know.


Rocky Balboa has himself something of a doozy. Does it matter that he’s a fictional character? Unless I missed something in the small print, I believe that’s kosher. Granted, requesting Jessica Rabbit’s voluptuous hips may be pushing it somewhat, but he’s pretty much an honorary human now after defeating the nefarious Ivan Drago. Best be very clear when selecting organs as his temples have taken more poundings than Alexis Texas and resulted in an inability to differentiate the Baldwins. However, if I’m looking for heart, then there are few that can boast of burning so brightly. Life has a tendency of backing us into a corner and knocking out those gumshields, so I need to know that I can endure such punishment and still get that one lucky punch in after thoroughly ogling the scoreboard chicks by way of mid-fight montage. Apparently I stand to receive a 50% discount on the eyes of a tiger if I plump for Balboa’s ticker, although Mr. Magoo’s are also going cheap so I may be able to strike a better deal elsewhere. Better not go getting ahead of myself, which reminds me, smarts will be every bit as imperative and I know exactly where I’m shopping for those. This one’s a no-brainer.


It just has to be Stephen Hawking right? I mean, this guy has so many letters after his name that he put Sesame Street out of business. Maybe next time they’ll think to make the place wheelchair accessible as he was more than willing to trade one of his honors for numbers. Stephen Hawking CH, CBE, FRS, 476 has rather a new-age feel to it don’t you think? Seems fitting for a brainbox rocket pilot whose theories extend to everything. I’ve half a mind to snag myself his voice generator also as I’d get one helluva kick from gate crashing any Doctor Who conventions with “Exterminate!” set as its default just to fuck with them. However, I won’t be getting greedy just yet as the most incalculable of his assets is undoubtedly buckled right into his swede. With Hawking’s brain running the show, I’ll be nigh-on unstoppable, and never again will I be required to remove the stickers on a Rubix Cube or create rear diversion during Battleships just to sneak a quick peak at the coordinates of Das Boot. Perhaps I’ll master chess just to piss off the Russians or build an aluminium wigwam for the Bermuda Triangle. No longer will the sky be the limit, never again will an intermediate crossword defeat me, not with this exclusive piece of kit in my armory. And the first thing I’ll do will be watching Memento again, on 64x reverse and with subtitles in Hebrew no less.

tumblr_n9dkmv0dpr1ql8jlyo1_1280Thanks to the Brothers Grimm, I know precisely where to go for my lustrous locks. Rapunzel’s tower is where it’s at and, when it comes to heads of hair, there is no finer barnet than hers. Granted, it has a tendency to become tangled, takes six months to shampoo and another eight weeks to condition, is a bastard to braid, and tends not to match her pubic thatch in coloration, but the benefits far outweigh any drawbacks. Never again would I lose my bearings in IKEA, people would travel from far and wide just to run their fingers through my mane, and her diamanté hair vine would double up as a pretty formidable throwing weapon in case my hairdresser took a little too much off the length. Of course, it’s vital we know how to rock those accessories, and I’ve already covered all bases. Thus I am placing a side order for the eyebrows of Brooke Shields, chin stubble of Zach Galifianakis, and mustache of Tom Atkins to make it a set. I hear there’s great mystical enchantment threaded into the ‘tache and, let’s be honest, there ain’t a man, woman, or randy vole alive not susceptible to the Atkins charm. While I’m quite aware that this amalgamation would leave me resembling a freak of nature, that’s ultimately another slightly less public-spirited way of saying unique and I always wanted to be considered a one-off.


Jeepers creepers, best not be forgetting those peepers. This one’s slightly trickier as I’m tempted to split the difference and pluck out one from Bradley Cooper and one from Jim Caviezel. However, how could I possibly pass up the sapphire sparklers of Zooey Deschanel? If you ask me, Ms. Deschanel doesn’t get anywhere near the credit she deserves for not using her ocean blues for iniquitous purposes. Were you aware that, should she exit her bed on the wrong side one morning, she could turn a full-grown man to stone with one hostile stare? And had you heard about her ability to slice through titanium as though it were one of Frank Stallone’s bank statements? Had you even heard that Sly had a younger brother? Apparently he plays Texas Hold ’em every second Tuesday with Don Swayze, Chad Lowe, and Jim Hanks and they have to use Sierra Nevada bottle tops as poker chips. What I’m saying in a roundabout way is that, if looks could kill, then Zooey Deschanel could very easily become the next Aileen Wuornos if she felt that way inclined. Besides, the eyes are the windows of the soul, and there really is no finer glazing.


If the eyes are the prize, then any other facial features are mere consolation. Thus I shall breeze through the following in the time it takes Taylor Swift to get sucked into a passing hurricane. Ben Stiller’s ears effectively make him the human equivalent of Falkor and have been known to reach altitudes in excess of 10,000 ft dependent on wind direction, Adrian Brody’s nose allows him to sneeze mucal stalagmites the length of Christopher Lambert’s entire face and, while Meg Ryan’s pout is a thing of great curiosity, Eddie Murphy’s lips are far less likely to explode during long-haul flights. I guess I may as well throw a chin in there for good measure and there’s only one in existence capable of being fitted with sand buggy wheels and used as a makeshift Segway. Sir Bruce of Campbell possesses the face tail I crave and is the one of only six recorded chins masculine enough to support the Brobdingnagian gnashers of Willem Defoe, which effortlessly beat off all-comers with regards to chomping gear. Hell, why stop there, when Neil Patrick Harris has filled in a donor card. Who wants a forehead when they could be proud owner of a sixhead? How’s that little lot for face value?


Naturally I will be required to speak my mind from time to time and had no trouble sussing out the most valuable voice box to yank from its tonsils. Apologies to Gilbert Gottfried, Bobcat Goldthwait, Joe Pasquale, and Pauly Shore for getting their hopes up on this front as comedy has a tendency of devaluing over time. Surely I would be better served by singling out the gruff reverb of Sean Connery, intermittent warbling of Christopher Walken, or “where’s ma cheeseburger?” rumblings of the king himself, Elvis Presley. Uh-huh. As magnanimous as the options may be, there could really only be one victor in the mouthpiece department and I’ve always fancied myself as a siren. It has been suggested (but never proved) that Stevie Wayne’s dulcet tones have been directly responsible for over 3,000 absent fisherman and I damn near drowned in the bath tub listening to one of her audio books entitled Come Over Here Big Boy & Wiggle My Knobs While I Suck On My Fingertip Suggestively. Indeed, that voice could make love to my ears until they birthed a wax infant and I’d have no need whatsoever for an epidural. That reminds me, I wonder if Stiller’s ears come packaged with surround sound.


With all vital facial coordinates now firmly in place, I think I should get to the real nitty-gritty. Fuck neck and shoulders, just toss in whatever you have knocking about in your stock room and I’ll make the best of them. What’s far more important is that I’ll have a chest to puff out if any mild peril plays out. Naturally, it would be far more military savvy to arm up with cannons over claymores, and there’s no way I’m opting out of the opportunity of commandeering my very own set of chubby chest cheeks. You’re damn right, mine’s a double latte. My only stipulation here is that they be 100% free of silicone implants as I want these jubblies to jiggle dagnabbit and they’re no doubt looking forward to it too. Alas, research on Katy Perry’s champion chesticles seems to have both ruled her out and shattered my teenage dreams to boot so I’ve had to resort to Jennifer Love Hewitt’s terrordomes as I hear that her nipples alone require their very own underwire and can express more milk in a second than Clarence The Cow can in a calendar month. Of course, I couldn’t risk having every unsavory opportunist attempting to latch on willy-nilly, so I’d keep these jubblies under a sports bra until personal playtime and likely never leave my room again. I’m gutted for Ms. Perry, really I am, so I will compensate for her snub by allowing this juicy jay bird to chirp us through our next selection.


Now I know there will likely be a fair few quizzical looks by this point as it’s all going a bit To Wong Foo and my creation is veering perilously close to being classified hermaphrodite. Well we may as well go the whole hog just to clear up any confusion and take this shit downstairs to the sexy south for the all-important humps, hammers, and hollows. First up I’ll be needing an atomic turtle and it cannot resemble a slug draped across two cherry tomatoes either. As tempted as I am to call Ron Jeremy to the stand, the word on the street is that it’s a bit of a one-eyed monster, so I’ll widen my search some and seek out something a dash less Excalibur. No shriveled up box cutters either, just a dainty dagger will do and preferably one that knows how to sit on the fence. Ergo all purple people eating porn schlongs are deemed as contraband and will be confiscated pending investigation for popping up without a permit. This one is tricky as I don’t make a habit of junk skulking and find them all mildly offensive other than my own. Indeed, we’re barely on speaking terms half the time. Rumor has it that Michael Fassbender is packing some brass so stitch it good and let’s move swiftly on shall we?


Now that I have myself an outie, it would seem only civil to procure that innie, for the sake of equal opportunities you understand. Okay you’ve got me, I may have the odd ulterior motive for placing my juice box order. What use is a bat cave if not used as a hideout? Where’s the fun in not finding out what the wizard keeps up his sleeve? And how deep does this thing go anyway? I’m not over-fussy here as long as it doesn’t resemble O.J. Simpson’s travel luggage on June 12, 1994 when he heard the approaching sirens. Neither must it be too ravaged as a lace bodice isn’t quite as sexy when it won’t fasten in the back. Neat and petite will do, two plump pouters, one coin slot, Bob’s yer uncle and Fanny’s his mistress. As for pubic hair, well this poses a slight conundrum as I happen to be rather partial to both mossy and fuzz free varieties. Tell you what, make mine a slap head, and throw in some fertilizer just in case I get green fingers. Rosario Dawson’s will do just fine after watching it vayjazzle in Alexander. And I’d like you to send me a facsimile with a detailed analysis of her menstrual cycle as I need to prepare myself for the arrival of monthly horror week.


I’ve heard nothing but good things about the legendary Badonkadonk thus I’m going super size on the derrière in a bid to defy the laws of gravity. The Brain of Hawking will assist with the physics part and those getaway sticks are up next so I’ll be damn sure not to select a pair of sparrow legs as it will invariably all end in bruises. What interests me far more is a nice rosy glow and perhaps a pair of cheeky dimples to make any erratic twerks more approachable. The bigger the better I say and, with that in mind, Nicki Minaj’s anaconda has an element of “Oh my gosh!” about it and can digest a field mouse in the time it takes Beyoncé to flush her most king-sized poo of the month. Of course, I must remain mindful of waste disposal and would imagine Ms. Minaj keeps an air freshener in her downstairs lavatory as the Kraken seldom washes. As long as I have sufficient reading material on hand at all times, I’m more than happy to drop the kids off at the pool once daily. Thank the heavens above that my diet isn’t high fibre or I’d be lugging around a chemical weapon. Now about those pins.


I’m 6″1 with a 33 inch inside leg so it would seem a shame to change the habit of a lifetime. Plus my masculinity is in scant supply right now as I’m pretty much a chick with a cock. Therefore I shall head on over to The Gosling’s pad and saw both his legs off at the upper thigh. While I’m committing mild misdemeanor, I’ll slather both stumps and slice me off some of that six-pack for any photo shoots. With any luck I’ll also inherit his driving skills as a tight pair of calves are crucial to delivering pedal to metal and Ryan can nail 0-60 in approximately the time it takes to turn a midwife into gargling gloop. I just pray he can disco dance as the last thing I need is to go all Foghorn Leghorn as I attempt that electric slide, have my free range privileges revoked, and wind up on the Swedish Chef’s hot plate for my troubles. There needs to be earth, wind, and fire in those ligaments and The Gosling just seems like the safest bet to me. For the record, I was this close to picking The Pink Panther as his Y.M.C.A. is truly a joy to behold. But I fear they’d prove too slender to support the Minaj fender. You see, it pays to be pragmatic.


Well I guess the only place left to go from here is the old mud hooks and, while tempted to acquire myself some cloven hooves, I need to consider my social status and those construction workers can be so cutting with their remarks. I can see it now – “Well lookie here boys, it’s Black Beauty. Saddle her up and we’ll enter her into the Kentucky Derby”. I suggest you drink your milk boys as any one of you comes within ten yards of this thoroughbred and you’ll be feeling these racing plates as they nestle in between your spunk bunkers. Better yet, I’ll scrap the horseshoes completely, and go for Bridget Fonda’s love boats as they’ve got it all going on. Perfectly proportioned, chubby in a good way, no runaway second toes, mutated tagalongs, cracked heels, or side pickles – just ten little piggies to take to market and bust out the open-toe sandals for. Don’t suppose you’d throw in a toe ring and some odor eaters would you? Never mind, you never know if you don’t ask. I just pray I can master walking in heels as I doubt The Gosling would be impressed if I scuffed up his ankles and I don’t fancy losing my deposit.


Okey dokey, I think that pretty much covers all the main bases, and will gladly leave the rest up to Victor as he seems quite the virtuoso when it comes to cut and paste. One thing is for sure, for all these audacious augmentations, there is one item I will carry with me throughout the changeover. A soul is impossible to capture and no amount of limb replacement could ever hope to unearth its source. Besides, the transition period is likely to involve a steep learning curve, and the dash of familiarity that a soul provides will see me safely through this getting to know you phase. I’m banking on a celebrated surgeon such as Victor Von Frankenstein not having an off day and hanging my shiny new Badonkadonk from my rib cage as I could do without the back pain and frontal flatulence if I’m honest. Nobody wants a malpractice suit filed against them and I’d hate to see Igor being flogged with a cat ‘o’ nine tails just because he doesn’t know his vessel clips from his bulldog clamps. Neither do I wish to end up returning to factory settings midway through an open-top Manhattan bus tour. I guess there’s only one way to find out and, judging by Igor’s roving eyeballs, it looks like the doctor will see me now. If you have any Godspeeds to impart, then I’d say now is as good a time as any. However, I’d prefer not to be told to break a leg, call me superstitious but I never did get how a shattered patella could be considered anything other than outrageous misfortune.




Indeed it is alive and, aside from the fact that every last tendon is ablaze with unthinkable pain right now, I do believe the operation was a resounding success. Victor looks beside himself and even Igor just raised a smile although that could be trapped wind. Yes it was trapped wind. Anyhoots, it would appear that everything from my wish list has been implanted, and I can’t wait to try it all out in public. Doctor’s orders are six weeks of bed rest but they always say that just to cover their backs and I’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time I’m sure. Besides, my return flight departs at dusk and there’s a Big Apple just waiting to have a bite taken out of it. Of course, I’ll need a guide for my NYC stop-off, and that actually gives me an idea y’know. Who wants to climb up The Empire State Building solo or ride through Central Park in a horse and carriage unaccompanied? Precisely. I’d therefore be grateful if lady fate could see her way clear to calling my guide and raising it with a bride. I hear Frankenhookers are extortionate and carry all manner of airborne germs and untraceable STDs so I’m going to the chapel baby. Can you smell that? No, not the formaldehyde. Wrong again, although Igor really should see a physician about that gas. It’s the fragrance of love m’lady. Time to fire off some frank ‘n’ beans and fall in love…ahem.

Click here to read Bride of Frankenself




Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,


Richard Charles Stevens


Keeper of the Crimson Quill


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